


Into Deepest Darkness

by Rose Argent (roseargent)



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Case Fic, Choking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, split personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-22 20:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12489732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseargent/pseuds/Rose%20Argent
Summary: Cain and Riff investigate a mysterious series of murders in a country village. Matters go awry, in a way neither of them could have expected.





	1. Common Route

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowynight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowynight/gifts).



> I'm sure vampire AUs have been done for this canon before, but I couldn't resist when given the opportunity.
> 
> I couldn't decide which ending I liked better, so I included both! Chapters 2 and 3 are two separate branching paths, each of which follows directly after the events of Chapter 1. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> Title is drawn from:  
>  _“I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.”_  
>        - Franz Kafka

"This is very likely a trap."

Cain knew that. Riff surely knew that Cain knew that, but one of them had to say it out loud sooner or later. London had been too quiet since the disaster at Crimone Garden, though the feel of a storm waiting to break remained; then something like this began to happen in a quiet country village. It was a risk leaving London, but Cain needed to follow any thread he could grab hold of. "Even if it is, the only way to turn it back on its maker is to spring it."

And people were dying. If it truly was a show meant to lure Cain, then he had a responsibility to stop it. 

The carriage jolted, tilting precariously to one side as a wheel dipped into a rut in the road. Cain reached out to brace himself against the wall, but Riff was there first, steadying him. As the carriage at last straightened out again, though the ride could no longer be called 'smooth', Cain let the breath he'd been holding out in an irritated sigh. "This road is unacceptable. I ought to file a complaint."

Riff offered no comment, sitting back down on the bench opposite Cain. After a moment he pulled out a sheaf of paper and offered it to Cain. "There's little information about this series of incidents."

Though Cain had already reviewed Riff's research on these murders they hadn't yet discussed the case much. It would pass the time until they reached the village, at least. "Six murders so far. Four women, two men. Three villagers, two servants from the local Baronet's manor, and one daughter of a merchant who had been passing through." It was an unusual mix, with no clear similarities between the victims save for youth. "One murder every three nights, and all the bodies found with their blood drained but without visible wounds." And that was more or less where the useful information ended. The area had a peaceful history and none of its local legends seemed to have any bearing on the situation. The village was small enough that any newcomers should have been noticed and already drawn suspicion, but the locals seemed as baffled as anyone. 

"They must be near to panic by now." 

Cain glanced up from the papers, catching Riff's concerned look. It was a valid point--they might have as much to fear from the villagers as from the murderer himself, being outsiders appearing at a fraught time. "Turning back has never been an option." It seemed awfully similar to the previous 'vampire' murders they'd dealt with--would Delilah bait him twice with the same trick? But if they were...

The Baronet's manor was, as manors went, fairly modest--the Hargreaves had several country homes that were both larger and more ornately decorated--but the servants that greeted them on arrival were the model of efficiency and the rooms given to Cain were comfortable and impeccably clean. He was informed that Sir John was out hunting for their dinner and would return shortly. "In the meantime, Milord, would you care to join Lady Edwards and the young Miss for Tea?"

Cain would have preferred to settle into his rooms and discuss the next move with Riff, but he could hardly decline.

The offerings were simple but well-made, and the company... well, the Baronet's daughter was young and pretty and charming and trying very hard to make Cain notice these things, and her mother was just on this side of outright frosty. There was nothing Cain could say to reassure her of his (lack of) intentions regarding her daughter, so he only smiled and flirted as much with her as with her daughter, which helped not at all. 

Sir John, when he returned, was also as openly wary of Cain as a Baronet could be of an Earl, but willing to accept his presence if there was any chance he could solve these murders. Cain continued to smile and said nothing of the possibility that the murders may have been done to draw him here to begin with.

Only the most recent victim remained unburied, and no amount of examination provided Cain any further clues. Later that evening, away from prying ears, Cain admitted to Riff: "If a poison was used, I can't identify it. There's no unusual scent, no discoloration of her skin beyond what I would expect from exsanguination. No sign of spasms, no odd substances found on or around her body. Nothing." That very lack of signs did narrow down the possibilities, but not sufficiently. 

"If the pattern continues, the killer should strike again tomorrow night." 

"We can question the villagers and servants tomorrow. If that turns up nothing... I dislike the notion of simply waiting for him to kill again and hoping it will provide more insight." 

Riff looked up from unlacing Cain's shoes, his expression distinctly suspicious. "Do nothing reckless, Lord Cain." 

There was nothing Cain could say in reply that wouldn't be transparently untrue. If they found no new information, the _only_ thing they could do was try to catch the killer in the act. Though Sir John said that he'd been organising patrols since the third murder and found nothing, Cain needed to see for himself. 

Speaking to the villagers and servants the next day provided frustratingly little clarity; no one knew any more than Riff had already discovered. The murders had started abruptly, there were no suspicious new people in the village or the Baronet's employ, and the unmarked bodies had at first seemed to be dead of some unknown disease. Some still weren't entirely sure that wasn't the case after all, given the lack of obvious violence. 

Cain was almost tempted to accept that theory--it would be a problem for doctors if it was true--except that he knew of no natural sickness that could not only remove all the blood from a body, but make it disappear as if into thin air. That he knew of no poisons that could do such a thing either only made him suspect Delilah's hand in this all the more.

That night, Cain lay fully dressed and awake on his bed, waiting for... what? A scream, conveniently within earshot of a manor on full alert? Some clue, something to give him a direction to look out in the vast countryside. 

Instead, he found himself drifting off to sleep, the need for rest so strong that it was nigh irresistible. It felt _wrong_ , this tiredness, and Cain struggled against it; he smelled nothing, but it had to be some drug. Running through the list of odorless gases that could cause sleepiness in his mind, Cain felt his thoughts begin to clear. He was unsteady on his feet for a moment as he rose, but that too passed as he focused on moving, on keeping his mind sharp. 

The manor was silent, the guards all asleep at their posts. What drug could be strong enough to affect the entire manor, and so quickly that no one noticed anything amiss? Even more impossible, as Cain ventured out into the moonlit fields he encountered groups of two and three--the patrols set by Sir John--asleep on the ground. No gas could affect so many in the open air. It was unnatural, impossible.

"What's this? Are you wandering in your sleep, pretty little lordling?" 

The voice came from behind Cain and he turned to lash out with his cane, but hit only mist. The mist swirled and parted in the wake of his cane, but quickly pulled together again. Cain covered his mouth with a handkerchief, trying not to breathe in whatever it was. As if it had a life of its own, the fog drew away from him and condensed into a dense cloud. 

And then, into a man. Or something that looked like a man. He was dressed in clothes finer than any Cain had seen since leaving London, and he held himself with the poise of a man of the nobility; he didn't belong here any more than Cain did, and yet no one had reported seeing him.

"One of Delilah's foul experiments, are you?" Though it had done him little good so far, Cain kept a firm grip on his cane and took a wary step back. 

The man-shaped thing laughed. "Those puppies? Hardly. But that you know that name makes me all the more curious about _you_ , little Lord."

Cain knew the legends, knew what the man--the creature--was trying to suggest by implying he was older than Delilah. He simply refused to believe a word of it. "You've some curious abilities, but I've seen the like before." Not quite, not really, but he would put nothing past his father and Delilah. 

"Have you?" Without any movement that Cain could catch the man was before him, gripping his chin in one hand. "You certainly are fighting me as though you have. But I think that is at an end." He smiled, fangs flashing white in the moonlight, and met Cain's gaze with golden eyes that seemed almost to glow. 

Distantly, faintly, Cain heard someone calling him as he fell into darkness. 

He came awake with a jerk and a gasp, feeling as though he'd been deep under water. Riff leaned over him, eyes dark with concern. "Don't get up just yet. You've slept the day through and couldn't be roused. I'll call for the doctor again."

A whole day gone? Cain raised a hand to his throat but felt no marks. There had been no marks on the victims, either, but Cain was demonstrably not dead. He felt nauseous, his head hurt and everything seemed too bright, too loud, but that could be the effect of sleeping so long. "What happened out there?"

"Out there?" Riff paused at the threshold, shooting Cain another worried look. "I found you in your bed; nothing seemed amiss except that I was unable to wake you."

It had been Riff calling him, Cain was quite certain. It seemed all too vivid to have been a dream. "And is there another victim?"

"We can talk about that after the doctor has another look at you." 

Cain flopped back onto the bed and glared up at the canopy. Nothing made any sense. If he'd truly encountered the murderer, he should be dead. If he hadn't, why had he dreamed such a thing, and slept the day through? He turned the two possibilities over and over again in his mind as the doctor took his pulse, checked his colour, and pronounced him healthy. His day long sleep was diagnosed as a product of extreme exhaustion. 

That farce over with, Cain turned his attention back to Riff. "Tell me, Riff."

Riff moved behind him, removing the shirt he'd slept in. "Another body has appeared, but there's one significant difference."

"I need to see it." 

As Riff sponged the dried sweat from his body and dressed him in clean clothes, Cain bore the delay with only minimal impatience. 

Another dead body raised possibilities Cain hadn't thought of. If someone from the manor had interrupted the killer and brought Cain back they might have tried to cover it up, fearing the consequences of having an Earl attacked on their land. Perhaps the murderer had simply found another victim, then. 

"Sir John has had it held for you in the chapel."

A brief dizzy spell assaulted Cain as he rose and Riff’s hand was at his elbow in an instant, supporting his weight with ease. He felt better as they got moving, shaking off the lingering traces of fatigue.

With the exception of the guards, no one seemed to be awake in the manor or the village as Cain and Riff passed through--it had to be later even than Riff had implied--but it felt like a natural quiet to Cain, after the complete stillness of the night before. Real or dream, that had been unnerving enough to linger in Cain's mind. Even the chapel was empty, save for the corpse.

It didn't take long to see what Riff meant by 'one significant difference': the corpse laid out in the chapel was missing its head. It had been severed but not cleanly; Cain couldn't quite determine what _had_ happened to it with only the stump of the neck to go on. 

Perhaps even more disturbing was the fact that Cain recognised the clothes the corpse was wearing. Either this body was that of the killer himself, or someone had re-dressed the corpse in the murderer's clothes in order to disguise its identity. Both possibilities raised questions Cain had no answers for.

Cain could feel Riff's eyes on him and tried to get his reaction under control. Riff professed no knowledge of Cain's excursion last night, and Cain wanted to believe him, but a squirming sick feeling in his gut insisted that Riff had been there, had called out to him. 

Had killed the murderer, and covered up his involvement? Impossible. Or had the man’s strange powers affected Riff somehow, as they had the rest of the manor and village residents? An appalling thought.

"No poison did this." Cain was stating the obvious, but he had no idea what else to say. He had no evidence to support his belief that Riff had been out there in the field, no reason to accuse Riff of deceiving him or to question the sanctity of Riff’s memories. "And without a face there's little hope of anyone identifying him. We can send to the tailor in London and find out who ordered this suit, but clothes can be put on any body." 

"We could return to London while we await the response from the tailor."

As little as Cain liked the idea of staying where a known killer with strange powers knew to find him--if this was not, in fact, the killer's body--he liked even less leaving the situation unresolved. "No, we stay."

Riff made no secret of his reservations about this plan, but he never quite argued with Cain about it. 

Sir John was not particularly happy to be told that the latest body had told them nothing yet, and that there was little to do but wait until the third night came around again. 

As much as Cain resented and worried about the day he'd lost to unexplained sleep, he found it somewhat a blessing that it had reversed his usual sleep-wake cycle, leaving him awake at night, when the murderer would be most active... and Sir John and his family less so. After reporting his failure to Sir John, Cain was conveniently asleep and unavailable for further questions.

The manor staff did their best to accommodate Cain’s strange hours, but he found that the fireplace in his rooms had not been fully cleaned. A thick coating of ash remained, and wedged under the grate he found a scrap of fine fabric. It could almost have come from one of his jackets. 

He’d gone out fully dressed, and awoken in his shirtsleeves. The room spun around him and his headache pounded with renewed ferocity as he fought down panic. Who had brought him back to the manor? Who had burned his clothes, redressed him, and put him in bed? Riff? Or some stranger? 

The deeper they got into this the fewer answers he seemed to have, and the less this seemed to have anything to do with Delilah. But Cain had his teeth in this mystery now, and couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

When Cain woke the next night, it was to the news that a maid had disappeared from the manor. No body had been found and all her belongings were gone from her room, but she had left no notice. The rest of the staff swore that she wasn't the type, that she must have been killed, and all eyes turned suspiciously to Cain and Riff. 

"It's two nights early! And to have spirited her away... since we arrived this murderer changes his methods every time he kills."

Riff, though his room was only a few doors down from the maid's, had seen and heard nothing. 

Cain was at a loss. He wanted to be at a loss, if it meant ignoring the doubts eating away at his heart like acid.

"Word has arrived from London. The tailor professes no knowledge of who purchased the clothes worn by the last body, though he admits they are clearly his work." 

That gave Cain pause. That sounded more like the tailor not _remembering_ the client, rather than trying to disguise his identity. It almost confirmed his worry that Riff had been there that night, but made to forget somehow. It would be damnably hard to track a man who could erase not only evidence of his presence, but the memories of any who had seen him. Sir John's patrols would certainly find nothing--or remember nothing of whatever they did find. Could he _change_ memories, too? Make a man do something he otherwise would not? "Every scrap of information we gain leads nowhere!"

"Sir John has increased the patrols again, and will have men out nightly until this is resolved."

"For all the good the patrols have done thus far." But Cain understood the need to be doing something--anything--in these circumstances. "We'll go out as well." If the killer did strike two nights in a row, perhaps Cain would once again be resistant to whatever he had used to put everyone else to sleep. 

Now armed with a pistol in addition to his cane, once again Cain set out into the dark fields surrounding the manor house. His concerns notwithstanding, Cain couldn't help but feel better having Riff at his back. He had to be wrong about Riff being involved in any way. He'd never lost faith in Riff before, to do so now was foolish--feeling so helpless to stop these killings was only eating at his confidence. No matter the killer’s abilities, no force could make Riff betray him. 

Before he knew it, they had somehow come to the very spot Cain remembered from that dreamlike night. The grass was flattened in places and close inspection turned up a few scattered patches of dried blood, barely visible on the dark grass; he’d not have seen them at all on a cloudy night. Cain imagined that he could smell the blood, and was dizzy for a moment. Was it his blood? The murderer's? Someone else's entirely? His memory remained stubbornly blank.

Cain trusted Riff with his very soul. He had squashed his mad suspicions. So why did the words die in his throat every time he tried to speak of what had happened here?

"It will be dawn soon. We should head back." Riff was looking off towards the east, his face turned away from Cain. Suddenly, Cain wanted very much to see the expression on Riff's face, but when Riff turned to look at him again Cain saw only the same quiet smile and concerned eyes as always.

It might have been better to wait until sunrise had come and gone, but Cain found that he was tired down to his bones. Was he still recovering from whatever that man had done to him? "We might as well."

Riff's pace was quicker than Cain was used to from him, even urgent, his long stride leaving Cain almost jogging to keep up. If the killer was going to steal away another servant from the manor now would be the time to catch him at it, so Cain made no complaint about having to hurry so.

Nothing seemed amiss in the manor when they returned and an early-rising scullery maid was willing to help them do a quick head count. No one was missing today. The maid still watched them leave with doubt and a hint of fear in her eyes, which was dispelled only a little by Cain's smile. 

The sun was coming up when Cain and Riff reached Cain's rooms. The drapes were still drawn, the household staff having left them shut in deference to Cain's strange hours, but Cain found he was craving a moment of sunlight after a long night searching fruitlessly for clues in the dark. He raised a hand to twitch open the drapes and heard Riff shout from behind him, "Lord Cain, _no_!"


	2. Ending A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of two possible endings for the story.

Riff reached past him, jerking the drapes closed, and where the light hit Riff's bare hand it raised welts, and then blisters, the skin smouldering as it burned before Cain's eyes. 

"And he tried so hard to keep it from you." Riff lashed out with his unburned right hand, and Cain instinctively raised his arm to block; there was a wet cracking and a blaze of pain, and Cain was on his knees before he knew it, cradling his broken arm against his chest. Such inhuman strength!

"'He'?" 

Again, Riff's right arm shot out and this time Cain was too slow to block it. Riff wrapped his fingers around Cain's neck and lifted him easily, one-handed, so that his feet left the floor. Cain pried at Riff's fingers with his good hand, but it was like trying to bend steel. Riff--this man who wore Riff's face--could crush his throat with a twitch of his fingers; instead, he squeezed only hard enough to leave Cain dizzy with lack of oxygen but still conscious. 

"That simpering fake you call 'Riff'."

_Fake?_

Cain wanted to look away from the man’s face, couldn't bear to see the disdain twisting Riff's features, but something in those cold eyes held his gaze. Slowly, Riff’s lips curled into a wicked smile, baring long white fangs, and too late Cain recognised this feeling, the pull in those eyes--golden, now, and glowing like fireflies. 

"That's it. Relax." The voice that was and wasn't Riff's wormed its way into Cain's mind and distantly, like it was happening to someone else, he felt his hand drop away from the man’s, no longer fighting the grip on his throat. "I wonder how the Cardmaster will feel, if I make his son my obedient little puppet? Or should I just present him with your head, after all?" 

Everything went dark for a time, and the next that Cain knew he was lying on the bed, Riff's lips at his throat. He croaked a denial, but could only lift his hand a few inches off the mattress before the effort was too much and he had to let it fall again. 

"Awake already?" He licked the side of Cain's neck and groaned softly. "This new body is strange, I will say. I loathe the sight of you, but the smell of your blood pulsing in that skinny little neck..." Riff’s hips rocked against Cain's thigh, and Cain flushed in rage and shame at the feel of the monster's stiff sinew pressing against him. "I wonder what kind of poisons run through your cursed blood... and I almost don't care if it kills me to drink. No wine has ever smelled so heady."

Sighing, the monster wearing Riff's face pulled away. "But I'm free for the first time in so long, and you're just not worth dying for." Once more he wrapped his fingers around Cain's throat, squeezing slowly, almost gently at first. He increased the pressure a little at a time, until Cain could draw no breath at all, and then released it just as Cain's vision began to go dark. "Keep your eyes on me, _Lord_ Cain. Let me watch you die."

He tried to resist, but the monster's eyes drew him in again and he couldn't look away. Again, again those steel fingers closed around his throat and his vision grew dim, but still he couldn't look away. And so Cain saw, hazily, the moment when the golden light drained out of those eyes. The arm holding him down began to tremble, and then the creature's left hand grasped at the right, tendons shredding under razor claws, and the grip on Cain's throat eased, then disappeared. 

Free from that gaze, Cain wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, and rest. It was quiet, then, peaceful and dark and free of pain.

"Lord Cain!" Someone was calling him, but they were so far away. 

" _Cain!_ " The agony in that voice reached the dark place where Cain was; he forced his eyes open and took a painful breath. His throat was swollen nearly shut, and that first breath started an agonising round of coughing; each spasm tore at his throat and jarred his broken arm. Cool, shaking hands rubbed his back, strong arms wrapped around him, and slowly the coughing eased. 

"Riff?" Cain's voice was ragged and it hurt to speak, but he had to know. 

"My Lord." Riff let go, pulling away from Cain sharply. "I'll call the doctor. I must... I can't stay." 

"You _will_ stay." Cain reached out, clutching at the back of Riff's shirt. "I won't allow you to leave."

"He's a danger to you. I'm a danger to you. " 

Cain shook his head, and immediately regretted the motion. His vision swam and he felt himself start to list, his grip on Riff's shirt faltering. There was a blink of nothing, and then he was awake again, cradled against Riff's chest. 

He could not lose Riff to this. Would not allow it. Swallowing painfully, Cain managed to clear his throat enough to speak again. "You're stronger than he is, and forewarned now." 

"Even now, I very much want..." Riff shuddered, his arms tightening around Cain as he turned his face against Cain's neck. "He wasn't wrong, about the way you smell."

Heat rushed to Cain's face and he tensed, but no bite came. After a moment Riff pulled away again, his limbs tense to the point of trembling as he fought for self-control. 

Remembering the extreme measures Riff had taken to regain control from that _other_ , Cain's stomach turned and he craned his neck to get a look at Riff's right hand. 

It was halfway healed, the tendons continuing to knit together as Cain watched. It was, of course, impossible. All of this was impossible. Cain closed his eyes. "Riff, you're actually..."

"... Yes."

"We'll sort it out." Somehow. Perhaps they could even turn it into an advantage in their fight against Delilah, provided they could deal with that other self lurking within Riff.

Before they could even think about that, they had to explain Cain's injuries to the doctor and the Baronet, inventing a confrontation with the killer that ended with Cain wounded and the killer shot and limping away to die wherever he had been hiding all this time. His lair, and his body, might never be found. It was a terrible story and no one believed a word of it at first. But as a week passed with no new murders or disappearances, expedience and relief slowly overtook suspicion and Sir John decided that since the problem had been solved, however it had come about, the matter should be declared closed.

Riff disappeared from Cain’s side twice in that week, returning after a few hours, his colour better and his hands steadier. No one disappeared, no one complained, and Cain didn’t ask questions. Not yet.

Travel arrangements became more complicated with keeping Riff out of the sunlight factored in, but generous bonuses and careful scheduling made it just possible. In their compartment on the train, the blinds firmly drawn, Cain leaned into the padded back of his seat and let go a terrific sigh. His throat was essentially better, but his arm still hurt fiercely and he resented the hindrance of having to do everything one handed. 

It was also their first true moment alone since that night, the doctor having been in and out of Cain's room with a nearly frantic frequency during his recovery. 

"I believe I have most of the sequence of events sorted out, but correct me if I'm wrong."

Riff inclined his head in assent. 

"You arrived on scene as the... murderer assaulted me, and he left me to deal with you. At some point you were bitten and..." 

"Died." 

Riff didn't seem bothered by the idea, but Cain still was. 

"In any case, that... person took over. You genuinely have no memory of what happened after that, only that you came back to yourself with a headless body beside you and me still unconscious. You brought me back to the manor, burned any blood-splattered clothing, re-dressed me and put me in bed. Not knowing exactly what happened yourself, you denied any knowledge of that night."

"I had intended to look into it further, but then you didn't wake, the body was discovered, and I found I couldn't bear the touch of sunlight. When you woke the next night you seemed inclined to a nocturnal schedule for the time being, and I thought perhaps I could hide it for long enough to come to a solution."

Cain closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap, growing reluctant as they approached the worst events. But Riff spoke again before he could summon the courage to do so himself.

"There's another blank in my memory when the servant girl disappeared. I can only assume--"

"He's not you." Cain would repeat it as many times as he needed to. For Riff's sake, and his own. 

"The rest, you know."

 _Not quite._ More than a few mysteries remained: who the other being inside Riff was, where he had come from, why he had called Riff a 'fake,' and most importantly what they could do about him. What to do about Riff's body and... needs... going forward would be another significant bump in the road. The matter of Delilah was no nearer to solved than it had been before this diversion, either. But Cain let all that lie, for now.

They had both come out alive--or alive enough--and his Riff had won the battle against the other. Any war that wasn't over was a war that could yet be won.


	3. Ending B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second of two possible endings for the story.

Riff reached past him, jerking the drapes closed, but in the moment that the early morning sun streamed into the room Cain's world became searing pain. He could smell flesh burning and something like burning hair, and everything was blinding white. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out and the movement sent new waves of agony through his face. 

Strong arms wrapped around him and caught him before he fell, before he knew he was falling, and then the white pain faded away into darkness. 

When Cain woke it was to a pervasive, throbbing pain and a soothing coolness draped over his face. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing--not through the damp cloth covering his face, not the cloth itself. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but it didn't happen. Panic hovered close by, ready to swallow him down, but a gentle hand touched his shoulder and Riff said, "Lord Cain."

Cain croaked out something in reply--he wasn't even sure what he had meant to say, and no words came in any case--and he felt Riff lean closer over him. 

He _smelled_ Riff lean closer. _Heard_ his heartbeat, suddenly, a loud and alluring drumbeat. 

"No." Cain's tongue touched long, curving fangs as he spoke, his teeth changing shape impossibly quickly. "Get back!"

The presence, the heartbeat, the _blood_ , stayed right where they were. Riff gripped his hand--his unburned left hand, Cain realised, only now starting to feel the ache in his right hand separately from the greater ache in his face and eyes--and squeezed, as if comforting a child. "I'm not leaving."

Squeezing back without thinking about it, Cain felt the bones of Riff's hand creak and grind in his grip, felt Riff tense in what had to be pain. Cain let go, or tried to, but Riff hung on. Panting, now, with fear and with a need he didn't--didn't want--to understand, Cain tried again, "I don't want to hurt you." 

"You won't," Riff lied, as though Cain hadn't just come near to breaking his hand.

"I'm _ordering_ you to get away!" Cain heard a shrill note in his voice and hated it. He needed to get this situation under control, get himself under control. "I can't... I need space. I need. A moment." 

The grip on his hand vanished and Riff pulled the damp cloth away from Cain's face. "I'll swap this for a fresh one." 

By the time Riff returned with another cloth, cooler and wetter than the one he'd removed, the pain in Cain's face had flared back to a deep, throbbing ache that spoke of damage he couldn't afford to contemplate yet, not until he had a grasp on what was happening (no, he knew what was happening). Even with the cloth removed, he'd seen nothing but darkness relieved only by the occasional spray of phantom sparks when he moved his eyes. (He had eyes to move, that was something). 

"Have you calmed down, Lord Cain?"

Cain swallowed, tried to breathe shallowly through his mouth, but the smell of Riff was no less distracting that way. Still, the panic was receding. "What happened that night in the field, Riff?"

Riff was silent, save for the beating of his heart--a little faster, now--and a faint rustle of clothes as he sat on the bed beside Cain. "I wasn't in time. I saw... he had you, I ran towards you, but there was a fog, and a blow from behind. Then nothing, for a time." Bitter frustration in Riff's voice, and no little guilt.

So the... the villain had had an unknown length of time to do whatever it was he did to Cain. "And then?"

Another increase in Riff's heartbeat, and an uncomfortable stretch of silence. "I woke to see you crouched over him, bloody to the elbows and..." Riff coughed, unable to continue. Cain's imagination filled in the missing details all on its own, and a wave of nausea was followed quickly by a stab of hunger.

That was... _disconcerting_. 

"You fainted shortly after that, so I fetched an axe and took care of the evidence. I burned your suit and my clothing, and buried the head." This, Riff reported casually--just another unpleasant duty completed as efficiently as possible. 

There was no purpose to asking why Riff had hidden this from Cain--Cain could think of half a dozen reasons Riff would try to spare him this knowledge even for a short time. A leaden feeling in his gut begged to be let out; his laugh sounded a little deranged even to his own ears. "Well, I'm certainly every bit the cursed monster _now_ , aren't I?"

The bed jerked as Riff made some rough gesture and his voice was fierce as he said, "This is a thing that was done to you. It need not define you. You've hurt no one who didn't deserve it."

"I suppose that servant who disappeared was secretly a foul murderess?"

"She was paid handsomely for her silence and her blood. I assume she chose to take the money and run." 

Incredulous, Cain turned his face towards Riff's voice, for all that he couldn't actually see him. "What?"

Entirely unapologetic, Riff said, "I needed to determine if your condition could be managed."

Cain laughed again, a little amused and a lot relieved. His 'condition', was it? 

The cloth slid down Cain's face a little, and the bed shifted again as Riff leaned in for a closer look. "This isn't healing at all yet."

"Why would it have? It's been only hours." Hadn't it?

"The... other's... wounds closed almost as soon as they were made, until he ran out of blood." 

The mere mention of the word 'blood' was enough to draw Cain's attention back to the sound of Riff's heart pulsing in his chest. Cain felt a little sick that his mouth was watering, his canines elongating again (his fangs, he had _fangs_ ), but still he found himself leaning into Riff, breathing deep to catch that scent again. Cain jerked back as soon as he noticed he was doing it, but Riff caught his wrist is one hand. 

Cain could have broken his grip, and easily. It was a strange feeling. But since he had little control over this new strength, yet, he instead forced his tone cold and arrogant and said, "Let go."

"We can't afford another missing girl now, when we've become suspicious. You need blood to heal. There is only one viable source."

"No." _No_. He could not. Would not. Not Riff. He wanted to, so badly it terrified him. Wanted to drink and drink and never stop, not while there was a drop left, and he _would not_. "I would not survive it if I killed you."

"Then don't kill me.” Riff cupped the back of his head with one hand, a gentle pressure pulling him forward. Cain couldn't make himself resist, and then his face was against Riff's neck, so close to that alluring vein, and he was dizzy with the scent of it. The pain of his burned skin pressing against Riff faded into unimportant background noise--all that he heard was the slow beat of Riff’s heart. 

His fangs slid in with only the slightest resistance, and his mouth filled with the taste of Riff’s blood. It was like... it was still blood, it still tasted of copper, but it was also like nothing Cain had tasted in his life. It was fire and light and life, like a warm summer’s day distilled, and from that first swallow it pooled in Cain’s belly with a warmth like mulled wine. He wrapped his arms around Riff, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in hair and shirt, and began to drink in earnest. 

Riff made a soft noise, like a sigh or a moan, and sagged bonelessly against Cain. A knife of fear twisted in Cain’s gut--he’d only had a little, not nearly enough, it can’t have been so much--but Riff’s heart still beat strong in his chest, and his arms slid lazily around Cain’s waist, hanging on when Cain would have pulled away. “Keep going.” Riff’s voice was thick, husky with pleasure, and Cain was too relieved to question. 

Too absorbed in the glorious taste of blood to want to question.

Another swallow of blood and the curtain of darkness began to clear from Cain’s vision. One more and the pain began to recede, his skin tingling and alive with blood flow. A last lingering mouthful, savoured to the last drop, and Cain forced himself to stop. He couldn’t quite force himself to pull away entirely, to stop nuzzling at Riff’s throat. He could still taste Riff’s blood on his tongue, still smell it under Riff’s skin, but that overpowering awareness of it was fading along with the pain. 

As Cain became more aware of the room around him he became aware, too, of the way Riff’s hip pressed against his leg, of the hardness of Riff’s truncheon under his trousers. Flushing scarlet with stolen blood, Cain started to draw away awkwardly, but still Riff would not let him go. 

Was this due to some arcane new property of his saliva? Some unknown venom in his fangs? A way to keep victims compliant, surely. “Riff!”

Opening his eyes, Riff looked down at Cain with a heartstopping smile, the sort of smile a man gave his lover after congress, warm and replete. “Lord Cain.” 

Cain felt himself stiffen in response and, to his shame, Riff clearly felt it, too. Riff shifted, canting his hips against Cain’s, wringing a gasp from Cain. Before Cain could recover he found himself pulled into a kiss. An expert, smouldering kiss that stole the breath from his lungs and the wit from his head. 

When the kiss ended, Cain finally managed to disentangle himself and stagger away from the bed. He splashed water on his face at the basin; it wasn’t cold enough to be truly bracing, but it was enough to bring him back to himself somewhat. 

Cain turned his attention back to the bed and Riff, nonplussed to find that, in the moments it took Cain to come to his senses, Riff had fallen solidly asleep. In Cain’s bed. It would be a long day of trying to sleep on the chaise longue for Cain, apparently. 

A long day, and an awkward night to look forward to when Riff woke. Still, Cain couldn’t entirely regret--much less forget--that kiss, his lips still tingling with it as he drifted into sleep.


End file.
